


Dear Eloise

by tiltedplanet



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Benedict, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Lesbian Eloise, Like they really expect me to believe these two are straight?, M/M, Regency, Slow Burn Romance, wlw/mlm solidarity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28704996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedplanet/pseuds/tiltedplanet
Summary: The social season has begun, and Eloise Bridgerton must face down a crucible of garden parties, pompous suitors, and one thoroughly arrogant princess, all in the name of finding a match—but she has no intention of giving up her independence. Meanwhile, her brother Benedict has troubles of his own, as his acquaintance with a mysterious poet awakens new and dangerous possibilities. In the heat of the London summer, where secrets abound and rumors spread like wildfire, Eloise and Benedict must decide how much they are willing to risk to follow their hearts. One thing is for sure: this will be a season to remember.
Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton/OC, Eloise Bridgerton/OC
Comments: 32
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my very first fic on AO3. This is intended to be read as a sequel to S1 of Bridgerton, so please watch the show first to avoid spoilers! I'm not familiar with the book series, so this storyline will be based only on the show and my own diabolical whims. Comments and kudos are welcome. I should warn my readers in advance that I have done very little in the way of research, so any historical accuracy is purely coincidental ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

_It is often said that a person’s true character is revealed in times of trouble. If this is so, then the London season must be a troublesome time indeed, for there is no better occasion to witness the nature of the human heart in all its contradictions. Yes, dear readers, another social season is upon us, and all eyes are on the Bridgerton family as their second daughter makes her debut in London society. While Miss Eloise Bridgerton is considered by many to be a most favorable prospect—after all, it was only last season that her sister Daphne landed none other than the Duke of Hastings—there are those who wonder if the young lady has what it takes to match her sister’s success. Meanwhile, rumors are swirling that the eldest Bridgerton son has finally decided to enter the marriage market, and there will no doubt be many young ladies eager to catch his eye. The Featherington sisters will be notably absent from the fray, however, after their family’s precipitous plunge into disrepute._

_The stage is set, the players are waiting in the wings, but who knows what twists of fate and outrageous fortune may follow? It must be acknowledged that the heart is a fickle master, and indeed, it is beyond even this author’s powers to say how matters will rest when the curtains fall. If one thing is certain, however, the London season of 1814 shall be a season to remember._

_-Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 1814_

Eloise hated garden parties. The season was about to begin, and her mother had been dragging her to every luncheon and reception in hopes of preparing her for her debut. She was sick of the posturing, sick of making small talk with the insufferable lords and ladies of the ton, and sick to death of cucumber sandwiches. And now she was obliged to attend Lady Upton’s garden party, where she would no doubt be subjected to more of the same.

“Must I go, Mama?” Eloise complained as the maids laced up her gown. “I would much prefer to stay home and finish my book.” She had been reading a collection of Wollstonecraft with great interest.

“Out of the question, dear,” her mother replied.

“Mary Wollstonecraft says that women must seek to cultivate our minds,” Eloise pointed out.

“Is that so? Well, you may do so at the garden party,” rejoined her mother, pressing a hand to her forehead. Lady Bridgerton had declined Lady Upton’s invitation, claiming to be indisposed. (In point of fact, she had lingered overmuch at the punch bowl at Lady Danbury’s soiree the previous evening.) Eloise’s older brother Benedict was to go in her place as a chaperone.

Benedict, however, had other plans. As they departed in the carriage, he informed Eloise that his artist friend Sir Granville had arranged an introduction with the director of the most exclusive art gallery in London. The meeting was to take place that afternoon.

“That is well,” Eloise interjected. “We can leave the party early then, and I shall accompany you to your appointment.”

“Oh no, that is hardly necessary,” said Benedict, wincing at the thought. “I will simply drop you off at home.”

“But then Mama…” Eloise trailed off. They both knew what their mother’s reaction would be if she caught Eloise evading her social obligations so close to her debut.

Benedict thought for a moment. “I shall drop you with a friend, then.”

“Which friend would that be?”

“Madame Delacroix.”

Well, that _was_ interesting. Eloise had not forgotten the night she had run into her brother in the company of the French modiste. “What did happen between you and Madame Delacroix anyway?” she asked conspiratorially. Benedict immediately turned bright red.

“N-nothing—that is, nothing that would concern you!” he sputtered.

Eloise raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You wouldn’t _lie_ to your favorite sister, now would you?” she asked with faux indignation. “Are you in love with her? I won’t tell anyone if you are.”

“No, I am not _in love_ with Madame Delacroix,” Benedict huffed.

“Then what?”

“There was a time last year when we—that is—it has to do with what happens between a man and a woman, and you shall find that out soon enough when you are married,” he concluded.

That was all well and good, but she wanted answers sooner than _that_. Eloise was not completely ignorant to the facts of life. Every spring, she knew, the birds made their nests in the back garden and the cottontail rabbits did what rabbits do. If that was how it was between a man and a woman, then she failed to see what all the fuss was about. Still, she obviously wasn’t going to get the answers from her brother. She resolved to ask Madame Delacroix.

The garden party passed by in a haze of soporific conversation and cucumber sandwiches until Benedict finally tapped Eloise meaningfully on the shoulder. She made her excuses—too much sun, she had come down with a sudden headache—and followed him back to the carriage.

“Do you think your art will be shown in the gallery this year?” she asked, handing him a jam tart that she had smuggled out in a handkerchief.

“Oh, perhaps,” he mused through a mouthful of pastry. “That remains to be seen—though Granville says my work is really promising!” He was almost vibrating with anticipation, and she was excited for him, but at the same time she felt a stab of jealousy. Her brother was a man of means and position in society, and everything seemed to just fall into his lap. If he set his mind on becoming an artist, he could achieve it. However much Eloise might wish to pursue her own dreams, she could never travel the world, attend university like her brothers, or become a respected scholar in her own right. Society had other plans for her. She was to make her debut, find a rich and well-connected husband, and become a wife and mother. That was the most she was allowed to hope for, and it stung. Still, she forced back her bitterness and clapped Benedict on the arm.

“Once they learn of your work, every gallery in London will fall at your feet,” she assured him. “This time next year, you shall be dining with the queen and drowning in suitors—I mean suitor _ettes_.” They both laughed, and the carriage passed on into a brilliant spring afternoon.

Madame Delacroix seemed a bit surprised when Benedict arrived unannounced with his wayward sister. Still, she waved away Benedict’s apologies—“of course _, mon amie_ , anything for a friend”—and shooed him out the door.

When the carriage had gone, she offered Eloise a chair in the back room of her shop and went to fix her a cup of tea. Eloise took stock of her surroundings and saw gowns in various stages of assembly, hung around the room like pastel-colored funeral drapes. She sighed, noticing her own pink-and-ivory gown nearly ready for the first ball of the season. For a brief moment, she entertained the idea of leaping from her chair and tearing the hateful thing to bits.

The modiste came back in with her tea, and Eloise sipped it moodily while the Frenchwoman returned to her sewing. Well, it was now or never.

“Madame Delacroix?”

“Please, _ma chérie_ , call me Genevieve,” the modiste chided.

“I’m sorry, Ma—I mean Genevieve. I hope you won’t mind my asking—” Now that the moment had come, she was unsure how to phrase her question. In the end, she decided subtlety was overrated. “I hope you won’t mind my asking what happens between a man and a woman?”

Genevieve laughed. “You are quite the precocious girl.”

“Please _don’t_ tell me I’m too young or some such nonsense. I shall be eighteen this year, I have a right to know, and no one else will tell me anything.”

The modiste sighed and put down her sewing, then proceeded to explain the whole thing, sketching out cursory illustrations on a piece of drafting paper. Eloise was aghast.

“And so you and Benedict—?” she asked, somewhat appalled.

“ _Oui_ , for a time,” the modiste replied, twirling her raven curls around her finger. “Now we are friends, nothing more. You see, I am an independent woman. I do not wish to form any permanent attachment.”

“You mean you never wish to be married?” Eloise knew about spinsters, of course, but she had always been told that this was a shameful and unhappy fate. Now here was Genevieve saying the complete opposite.

“Heaven forbid! My business, my independence is everything to me. I will not let any man get in the way of that.”

Eloise didn’t know what to think. She had spent her whole life believing that marriage was the only viable option, but perhaps there was another way. She could become independent and forge her own path, away from the unforgiving censure of high society. No—she had to. The alternative was laid out before her on a sheet of drafting paper, and she was not going to submit to _that_.

“But tell me,” Genevieve was saying, “how is Benedict? He told me he had an important meeting?”

“Yes, he and Sir Granville are going to meet with the head of an art gallery downtown.”

“Henry Granville? A fine artist—with a most discerning eye. I hope he is keeping well.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” A note of bitterness slipped into Eloise’s voice. “He is a man with money, a title, a beautiful wife and a successful career. We should all be so lucky.”

Genevieve smiled. “Appearances can be deceiving, _ma chérie_.”

“What do you mean by that?”

The modiste threaded a needle and shrugged. “Perhaps you should ask Benedict about it sometime.”

Eloise wanted to question her further, but instead she sipped her tea and placed the cup back on the plate. “Thank you, Genevieve,” she said finally. “That was most enlightening.”

⋯

Lady Bridgerton discovered Benedict and Eloise’s deception, of course. Lady Upton called on her at tea the next day and inquired after poor Eloise—the girl had left the party early complaining of a headache; was she quite alright? Eloise expected to be severely chastised, but her mother’s wrath instead fell on Benedict as the responsible older brother.

“Why on earth did you run off like that? Lady Upton no doubt felt snubbed, and with her eldest son coming into his inheritance, well, we mustn’t get on her bad side. Do you want your sister to end up an old maid?”

Benedict hung his head. “I take full responsibility,” he said. “But Mother, you know how I despise these frivolous social engagements. Why couldn’t Anthony have taken her instead?”

“Your brother has many things to attend to; you do not.” Lady Bridgerton tactfully omitted the fact that Anthony had been a spectacular failure as a chaperone in the previous social season. “Looking after your sister is the very _least_ you could do. I am disappointed in you, Benedict.”

“I am sorry, Mother.”

“Well, no matter. At the start of the season, you will accompany Eloise to her first ball. I need not impress on you the importance of this duty, Benedict. I will trust in your good judgment.”

“Of course. I would be honored.”

Later that afternoon, Eloise paid a visit to her friend Penelope Featherington, who lived just across the street. Pen’s family had been in dire straits since Lord Featherington had gambled away the family fortune—and his life. Nonetheless, Eloise and Pen had known each other since they were both in leading strings and nothing could come between them. Eloise could scarcely wait to tell Pen everything that Madame Delacroix had revealed to her about the mysteries of life.

“How shocking!” Pen exclaimed once she had finished recounting the details. They were standing in the back garden among a spray of purple lilacs. “I have never heard such a thing spoken of.”

“Indeed these things are _not_ spoken of,” Eloise sighed, “at least not in the presence of ladies. Apparently the mere knowledge of such topics might corrupt our tender virtues. I feel differently. You see Pen, I have decided to become an independent woman.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” her friend wanted to know.

“Only that I do not wish to be ignorant to the realities of life,” Eloise replied. “I refuse to be sheltered and cosseted and married off to some tiresome nobleman. My life shall not be an endless gauntlet of—of _garden parties_. I shall live as I please.”

Penelope seemed a bit taken aback by this forceful declaration, but she was supportive. “For my own part, I hope to marry a man who is handsome and kind,” she admitted, with a far-away expression. “Perhaps we ought to switch places, Eloise. I so wish to go to the balls this season and dance the night away, but we do not even have the money for dresses. And besides, we would be turned away at the door.” Penelope’s lip quivered and her crystal blue eyes welled with tears. Eloise wrapped a reassuring hand around her friend’s shoulders.

“Trust that I would switch places with you in a heartbeat if I could,” Eloise said. “But I shall tell you everything that happens at next week’s ball.”

“I should be so glad.” Penelope smiled, brushing away her tears, and the two young women headed inside for tea and cakes.

⋯

The first ball of the season had arrived, and Eloise was not a happy debutante. She had been laced into a dress that was entirely too low at the bosom and festooned with more pearls and ribbons than she knew what to do with, and she felt utterly ridiculous. Her mother had assured her over and over again that she looked beautiful, but if anything that only made her feel worse. She had no desire to stand out among the crowd. All her life, Eloise had been able to vanish into the background, thanks to her accomplished older brothers and her oh-so-perfect sister, and that had been fine by her. Now she was coming out into the spotlight, and it made her want to shrivel up and die.

Benedict pressed her arm reassuringly as they stepped out of the carriage in front of the Hastings manor. “You’ll be fine.” She nodded, though she felt anything but. If there was any light at the end of the tunnel, it was her sister and brother-in-law’s library. Perhaps she might steal away from the festivities when no one was looking and escape between the shelves.

Unfortunately, she realized as soon as her name was announced and she stepped into the ballroom that all eyes were on her. She should have known. Daphne had married the Duke of Hastings, and those family connections made Eloise herself a most desirable match. Suddenly she was swarmed by eligible bachelors, and Benedict practically had to beat them off with a stick. There were Uptons and Fitzpaines, Willowtops and Wetherbys (or was it Wethertops and Willowbys?), and poor Eloise could barely keep them all straight.

She wanted wine to take the edge off, but her mother had made her promise to stick to lemonade. She’d just managed to pilfer Benedict’s glass of madeira when she turned around to find herself face-to-face with a most unpleasant young gentleman. He had blonde hair and wore a pompous smirk, and introduced himself as Viscount Pritchard. Apparently he had been at Oxford with her brother. Eloise couldn’t recall Benedict ever mentioning a friend by that name, but then it occurred to her that he probably meant Anthony. Well, if this Pritchard was one of Anthony’s college chums, then she wanted even less to do with him.

Pritchard, oblivious to her displeasure, began expounding at length on his recent big game hunting trip in Africa. To hear him tell it, he had killed enough poor lions to carpet the royal palace with their pelts. He was an excellent shot, apparently, not to mention well-respected in society, and destined for a distinguished career in Parliament (he stressed this point several times). Eloise shot a meaningful glance at Benedict, hoping he could help extricate her, but he was now deep in conversation with Sir Granville and only gave her a distracted wave. It was clear that if Eloise didn’t appease Pritchard with a dance, he would be bothering her all night. She emptied her glass in one swig and extended her hand to her would-be suitor.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” she said. His lip curled, but he took her hand and led her to the dance floor. They were to dance a quadrille, a sort of partner-swapping dance, so at least she wouldn’t have to put up with Pritchard for very long. The man seemed to delight in talking about himself. She nodded and ignored him until she was mercifully delivered into the arms of her next partner, who had introduced himself earlier as Lord Francis Hampton. A poet, if her recollection was correct. He was rather short, with a dark brown complexion and an easy smile.

“I hope you are having a pleasant evening?” he said.

“Not in the least,” Eloise replied honestly.

He laughed. “Neither am I, actually.”

“There are too many people here, and most of them are awful, and—oh!” She had just trodden heavily on Lord Hampton’s foot. He winced, though he graciously accepted her apologies.

Perhaps she should have kept away from the wine after all, Eloise reflected, feeling the eyes of the ton on her as she blundered her way through the rest of the dance. The night could not end soon enough.

Several dances later, Eloise was offered a brief respite when Daphne took her under her arm.

“Are you all right?” her older sister asked gently. “I know it’s all a bit overwhelming, but at the end of all this you will have a loving husband, a family. It will be worth it in the end.”

Eloise looked down at her sister’s heavily pregnant belly with a sinking feeling. No, she wanted to scream, that’s not what I want! But Daphne couldn’t possibly understand. All she had ever wished for was to be a wife and mother, to take her appointed place in society.

“I think I feel a touch unwell,” Eloise whispered. “Might I go to the library for a moment and sit down?”

“Certainly,” said Daphne. “I shall have Simon create a distraction.”

She whispered something to her husband and he raised his glass. “A toast!” he cried, and the attention of the crowd turned to him. “A toast to the beautiful Duchess Hastings, and my future heir!”

The lords and ladies of the ton began clamoring for a speech. Meanwhile, Eloise slipped away and made her way towards the library.

She was hurrying down a deserted hallway when she turned the corner to see two people standing very close together. One of them was Sir Granville, her brother’s artist friend. The other she recognized as Lord Wetherby. They didn’t seem to notice her, and she had just resolved to turn back around when Granville abruptly leaned forward, took hold of the other man’s shirt front and kissed him. 

Eloise stumbled back in shock, inadvertently upsetting a decorative vase. It fell and shattered with a crash.

Granville spun around. “Miss Bridgerton—” he sputtered.

“What are you doing?” Eloise gasped.

“You must tell no one of this,” Granville entreated. He sounded terrified, and Wetherby looked even more so. “They would have our heads—”

Eloise’s mind was reeling. She wasn’t sure exactly what she had just witnessed, but she was certain that it went against every rule of propriety. Was this what Genevieve had meant when she said appearances could be deceiving?

“I was just going to the library,” she blurted out, pushing past the two men. Wetherby called out for her to wait. Ignoring him, she broke into a sprint and ran headlong down the corridor.

Alone at last in the library, Eloise flung herself into an armchair and seized a book at random from the adjacent shelf. She listlessly turned the pages, but the printed words swam in front of her eyes. Her mind was on fire with what she had just witnessed. Perhaps she had somehow misinterpreted …? But no, there could be no mistake. She was still trying to puzzle it together when Benedict finally found her and steered her back to the ballroom. She did not see Granville or Wetherby again that night.

“You shouldn’t go wandering off by yourself, Eloise,” Benedict admonished her later that night, when they had returned home from the ball. The back garden was cloaked in shadow, and the air was filled with the secret night sounds of frogs and crickets. Eloise and Benedict sat next to each other on the old swing set, passing a tobacco pipe back and forth as they often did. “As your chaperone, it is my duty to accompany you.”

Eloise shrugged and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I am not a child, Benedict. I can take care of myself.”

“Of course. But you know how people talk. We should not wish to invite scandal—”

“I was not the only one wandering the corridors,” Eloise said pointedly, passing her brother the pipe. “I saw Sir Granville in the hall.”

“Indeed?”

“And Lord Wetherby.”

“Oh?”

“They were kissing, Benedict.”

He went very still. “You must be mistaken,” he replied cagily. “I am certain he was in the ballroom all the time with his wife.”

“Benedict, you needn’t shield me from the world. I want to know what is between Granville and Wetherby. Please tell me the truth.”

Her brother sighed. “Very well,” he whispered, glancing around as if expecting to see Lady Whistledown hiding among the hydrangeas. “But you must tell no one. You see, Henry is—well, he is in love with Lord Wetherby. They care for each other—intimately—they are lovers. I can’t claim to understand completely, but he has been nothing but kind to me and I wish very much to protect his good name. If anyone were to find out, Eloise, they would both face execution. So you see why I don't wish to discuss it freely.”

“Execution? But that is barbaric.”

“It is the king’s law.”

"And what is their crime?”

Benedict said nothing, just took a long drag of the pipe. After a long pause, he stood up. “It is late,” he remarked quietly. Eloise was still brimming with questions, but her brother seemed to be done talking. He began to walk back toward the house, then stopped and turned to look at her over his shoulder.

“Eloise?”

“Yes?”

“You would do well to forget this.”

⋯

Eloise was eager to recount the events of the ball to Penelope, but the next morning her friend showed up at the Bridgertons’ front door on the verge of tears. Eloise ushered her into the drawing room, where Pen flung herself onto the sofa and dissolved into sobs. Even an offering of lemonade and teacakes did little to cheer her up. As Eloise sat down next to her, the butler appeared to announce that Viscount Pritchard had come to call.

“Tell him to go away!” Eloise shouted. “I have more important matters to attend to, and suitors shall have to wait.”

Penelope forgot her tears for a moment as she suppressed a giggle. “You are so fortunate to have suitors calling on you already,” she said with a wistful smile.

“I hate them all,” Eloise said through a mouthful of cake. “Pritchard especially. You can have them, for all I care.”

“If only I could,” Pen sighed. “What is to become of me, Eloise? I have no dowry. My family is disgraced. Who would ever want to marry me now?” She sobbed and buried her face in the couch cushions. “No one will ever love me.”

"What is all this about, Pen? Don’t talk nonsense.” Eloise laid a hand on Penelope’s shoulder. “You are so much more than your father’s mistakes. You are kind and clever and beautiful, and you deserve every happiness in the world. The man who wins your hand shall be lucky indeed. I only wish you could come with me to all these ridiculous balls this season; I am absolutely miserable without you. But I suppose there is always next year.”

“No there isn’t.” Pen sat up suddenly and regarded her with a stricken expression. “I didn’t know how to tell you before—my family is leaving London. We must go to live with my aunt and uncle in the country. We’ve lost everything, and Mama cannot support us on her own.” She tried to force a smile. “It’s better this way. At least, your family will be spared the dishonor of associating with us any longer.”

Eloise shook her head. “You can’t go,” she pleaded, fighting back tears. “Stay with us. You could sleep in my old room. I am certain if I just talk to Mama—”

“You are too kind, but everything has already been arranged. The carriage is leaving this afternoon.” Penelope wiped her eyes and smoothed the front of her dress. “You have always been such a good friend to me, the best friend anyone could ask for.” She took Eloise’s hand in hers. “Remember to write every week.”

“Every day,” Eloise promised. She felt a flood of emotions rising in her chest. It was unbearable. Pen was sitting right next to her, holding her hand, but she seemed a million miles away. Before she could stop herself, Eloise closed the distance and kissed her.

Penelope recoiled in shock, her eyes wide. She put one hand over her mouth. “Eloise—”

Eloise stood up quickly, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. What had come over her? “I—”

At that moment, the butler bustled through the door and informed Penelope that she was wanted at home. “I must go,” Pen said quietly. She gave a small, hesitant wave and turned away.

Eloise didn’t know what to say. “Goodbye,” she whispered, but her friend was already gone.

⋯

Benedict’s thoughts were in turmoil as he sat at his desk, working over a sketch. He had told his sister to forget about Granville’s secret, but for his own part he could not put it out of his mind. There were many questions that he had been burning to ask ever since he’d discovered his friend’s affair with Wetherby.

Were there others with such inclinations? There must be, or the crown would not have seen fit to outlaw them. In that case, how many? and what made them so? Sometimes he found himself at the club, stealing glances at the other men and wondering if they had the same secret. Other times, while sketching late into the evenings with Granville’s artist circle, he became conscious that his gaze lingered on the male models. But this was nothing out of the ordinary. Benedict was an artist, after all, with strong aesthetic sensibilities. He had always appreciated beauty in both men and women, just as he might appreciate a colorful flower or a charming landscape—surely there was nothing improper in that?

Of course, he did not intend to dwell on these matters. Granville was his friend, that was all. As for Benedict himself, he was certain of his own disposition. His desire toward women was perfectly obvious, so why should he give the matter a second thought? It made no difference to him. But still the curiosity persisted, indeterminate, in the back of his mind. Benedict had almost succeeded in forgetting for a time, until the whole business with Eloise had dredged it all back up again. He resented Granville a little for not being more careful. The fool was going to get himself caught one of these days. The law was the law, and even a man of Granville’s status could only push his luck so far.

That evening, Anthony and Benedict took the carriage down to White’s for dinner. Their old friend Harry Upton had just come into his inheritance, which naturally meant a night of celebration was in order. Cecil Pritchard was there, along with the poet Francis Hampton and a number of others. The mood was buoyant, and Anthony would have normally been in his element, but he did not seem particularly happy. He scowled over his plate and responded with noncommittal grunts whenever someone tried to engage him in the discussion. Benedict didn’t know what had come over his older brother, but he suspected it had something to do with the opera singer who had lately spurned his affections. Well, poor Anthony would just have to get over his heartbreak in his own time. Benedict was here to enjoy himself—and perhaps to drown out his confused thoughts with drink and company.

After dinner, Lord Upton ordered them all a round of drinks as the topic turned to the start of the social season and the relative merits of this year’s debutantes. Benedict was only half paying attention when Upton turned to him.

“So tell me,” Upton was asking, “have any of the young ladies caught your eye?” Everyone looked to him for an answer.

“They are each more beautiful than the last, gentlemen, but as matters stand, I am married to my art.”

Upton clapped him affectionately on the back. “Your art? A noble sentiment—but I know you too well, Bridgerton. I remember the old college days. Ten to one you have a little muse hidden away in a love nest somewhere in London.” The men roared with laughter; Benedict smiled and shrugged. “Another drink for this lonely bachelor,” Upton cried, then turned to Anthony. “And what of Bridgerton the older? I hear you are looking for love this season.”

“I don’t believe in love,” said Anthony venomously, and the others turned to look at him.

“Why ever not?” asked Francis Hampton. “I believe love is the highest of all human endeavors.” He took a sip of wine, apparently warming to the subject. “Without love, what should separate mankind from the beasts?”

“Nothing at all, if you ask me,” Anthony retorted. “The ballroom is a veritable den of wolves and snakes in my estimation. But you appear to disagree. Where is your paramour, I wonder?”

“I have not found love yet,” the poet admitted, “but I shall some day.” His eyes met Benedict’s across the table. “What do you think, Bridgerton?”

Benedict flushed. He didn’t know what to make of all this talk of love and snakes. “I suppose love is all very well, but how about another round of drinks?” he offered by way of changing the subject. The men burst into laughter and cheers. Someone proposed a game of cards, and soon they had all gathered around the card table with drinks in hand. Benedict allowed himself to sink into the warm glow of alcohol and forget his troubles.

Cards were played, money changed hands, and the night wore on. Gradually the talk began to shift to matters more ignominious. Pritchard had planned a night of entertainment at a certain notorious club in Soho Square. There were beautiful girls there, he promised, as comely as any debutante but at a far more economical price. Benedict noticed that Hampton looked less pleased by this news than the other men. Perhaps such exploits were beneath his poetic sensibilities. Or perhaps ...

At one point during the card game, Benedict felt his hand inadvertently brush against Hampton’s. He caught the other man’s eyes and Hampton glanced away quickly—but not quickly enough. A flash of recognition passed through him. It might have been the alcohol, but he felt a stirring of _something_ in the depths of him, something between fear and anticipation. Suddenly the atmosphere of the club was suffocating, and the thought of spending his evening in a brothel could not be borne.

“I must make my apologies, gentlemen,” he mumbled. “I am overtired.”

“But the night has just begun!” Anthony protested. “Besides, if you take the carriage now, I shall be forced to walk home.”

“As if you’re going home tonight,” Benedict countered. “I’m leaving.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

The two brothers glared at each other, at an impasse. Finally, it was Hampton who broke the silence.

“I should be getting home as well,” he said, and turned to Benedict. “Why don’t I give you a ride in my carriage?”

It might have been a sign from God himself, as far as Benedict was concerned. “As my brother continues to be insufferable,” he replied with a smile, “I would be happy to accept your offer.” Hampton returned his smile, and they went out together into the fog-draped London night.

As soon as the two men had seated themselves in the carriage, Benedict was suddenly at a loss for words. He hardly knew Hampton, they were merely acquaintances, and he couldn’t exactly pose the one, burning question that he wanted to ask. He glanced out the window and fiddled with his shirt cuffs, feeling stupid and a bit drunk.

“You know,” the poet said suddenly, “I never had the opportunity to hear your thoughts on love, Bridgerton.”

Benedict was thankful for the darkness of the carriage then, because he was sure the expression on his face betrayed him. What could he say to a poet about love? He had never been good with words. Then he remembered something that Granville had said to him once. Perhaps Hampton would understand what it meant.

“A friend of mine told me that love is dangerous,” he began.

Hampton raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“He said that to love another is to take one’s life in one’s hand. To risk everything.”

“Then is love not a curse?”

“Perhaps, but my friend didn’t think so. He told me love is a most rare and beautiful gift, something worth staking one’s life on whatever the cost.” Hampton was silent for a long time, and Benedict was afraid that he had said too much.

“Your friend sounds like an interesting man,” said Hampton finally. “Do you believe him to be right?”

“I couldn’t say, really. I have never been in love,” Benedict replied hesitantly. He turned and met the poet’s gaze. “Have you?”

“I fancied myself in love once. But no, I am—what was it you said earlier?—I am married to my art,” Hampton remarked with a hint of sadness.

“You know, I saw you dancing with Eloise at the Duchess’ ball,” Benedict recalled after a long moment. “Do you intend to court my sister?”

Hampton gave him a searching look. “Your sister is a fine young woman,” he said. “She deserves a love like the one you speak of, the kind that poets speak of. And you, Bridgerton, you deserve the same.”

“I don’t believe you have answered my question.”

“But we seem to have arrived at your address,” Hampton said with a smile. “Another time, perhaps.”

Benedict stumbled out of the carriage, his head spinning. He leaned against the front gate to collect himself, and when he looked back at the street, the carriage had already gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I'm truly overwhelmed by the attention that this work has received, and I want to take this opportunity to thank my readers for your continued support. I read every comment and I will do my best to reply to every single one. Also, shout-out to my awesome beta reader, Jessa!
> 
> Thanks everyone, and I hope you enjoy this next installment.

_The ton has been abuzz this week with the news that a beautiful young princess has recently arrived from distant Spain, and indeed, shall be making her debut in London society this very night. Little is known of Princess Fatima, who spent most of the past six years in exile while a French despot sat upon the Spanish throne. Rumors are already flying about the infanta’s mysterious past. Some say that she can ride bareback like the wind, that she is descended from a Moorish sultan, that she is accustomed to wear pantaloons in public, or that she commands a menagerie of exotic beasts. It may be that such rumors, far from staining her reputation, will draw even more eager attention from London’s young bachelors, along with much resentment from the mamas and debutantes._

_This author has often remarked that a woman’s virtue is like a spring flower, easily tarnished by misadventure. Is the Spanish princess really searching for true love among the London set? Or is there another reason for her sudden departure from Spain? Perhaps the infanta has untold indiscretions she’d prefer to leave behind. This author shall refrain from speculation; indeed, only time will tell._

_-Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 1814_

The Spanish infanta had arrived in town amid a whirlwind of speculation. Her upcoming appearance at Lady Danbury’s ball was the reigning topic of conversation in every parlor and smoking room in London. Even Anthony, previously so dispirited, had seemed to come alive to the news of the princess’ impending debut.

Eloise, for her part, could muster only hollow excitement; the circumstances of Penelope’s sudden departure weighed on her mind. She was convinced that her friend must resent her. A week had come and gone without a single letter, and she had no one to blame but herself. The kiss had been a mistake, a fleeting lapse of judgement—and yet, she reflected, not entirely unexpected. It was a slow-growing flame that had burned out of control, and she had lit the match with her own perverse curiosity. She had asked too many questions, opened a Pandora’s box of dangerous ideas, and now she was being punished for it.

She had been a fool. Yet even now, in the depths of her ignominy, she could not bring herself to regret it. Her treacherous brain kept returning to stolen kisses and dark corridors and drafting paper and secrets. Slowly, from the chaos of her thoughts, _something_ was coming into focus. Either she was on the threshold of some profound discovery, or she was simply going mad—and at this point madness seemed more likely.

Eloise wanted someone to confide in, but without Pen, she had never felt more alone. There was always Benedict, but he seemed burdened lately by troubles of his own. Besides, what could she possibly tell him? _I kissed my best friend, and now I think I might be some sort of unspeakable reprobate! Anyway, how is your sketch portfolio coming along?_ No, it was simply out of the question.

It was in a pensive mood, then, that Eloise arrived at Lady Danbury’s ball. She barely noticed the glittering chandeliers and decadent towers of _hors d'oeuvres_ , much less the hopeful suitors who tried to catch her eye. Unfortunately, her taciturn expression did not discourage Viscount Pritchard from coming up to ask her for a dance. The man was nothing if not persistent, and the way he looked her up and down—as though she were a lioness to add to his collection—set her teeth on edge.

Eloise crossed her arms and replied that, most regretfully, her dance card was already full. Pritchard turned on his heel and prowled away to harass some other poor debutante, while Eloise wondered how long she could keep turning down suitors before someone called her bluff.

As it turned out, she need not have worried. Before long, the Spanish princess arrived fashionably late, trailed by a harried _chaperón_ and a crowd of eager suitors. How could one describe Princess Fatima? She was tall, dark and fine-featured, with all the superior air of a well-bred peacock, and she wore a frothy emerald ball gown that must have cost more than all the Bridgerton assets put together. The wealth of a small kingdom glittered around her neck as she glided across the ballroom with her head held high, a bored and haughty expression on her face. London society fell at her slippered feet, and she vaporized it in her wake. Eloise disliked her instantly.

Anthony, on the other hand, was star-struck. Eloise knew that her brother was helpless against the charms of a beautiful woman, and Princess Fatima was radiant. She watched him fortify himself with a glass of champagne and approach the infanta, bowing low to kiss her hand. The princess made some remark, and he retreated looking like a kicked dog. Eloise could not suppress a laugh, and her opinion of the princess improved slightly.

She also had to credit Princess Fatima for diverting her own suitors’ attention. Indeed, nearly three-quarters of an hour passed in relative solitude before she was approached by Lord Hampton. “Good evening, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, bowing gracefully. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

Eloise was inclined to turn him down, but she did find him less objectionable than the other suitors, and his willingness to risk having his feet trampled again showed admirable fortitude. Besides, she was growing bored of standing around. She assented, and they took a turn around the ballroom. He seemed genuinely interested in her conversation, which put him leagues above Viscount Pritchard in her estimation.

When the dance was over, Eloise spotted Benedict loitering by the punch bowl and went over to join him. He looked slightly out of sorts, but when she asked if there was anything the matter, he shook his head and changed the subject.

“Do you intend to entertain Lord Hampton as a suitor?” he wanted to know.

“If I am to be subjected to this ridiculous pageantry, then I suppose he is less objectionable than some,” Eloise replied. “Though you must know that I have no intention of marrying anyone.” She turned to scrutinize her brother. “Why do you ask? Is there any reason I should not entertain his attentions, such as they are?”

Benedict flushed. “N-no, I suppose not. Though I should tell you—”

They were interrupted by the appearance of Lord Wetherby, looking a bit embarrassed as he asked Eloise for a dance. She had not seen him since the Hastings ball. Benedict looked askance, and she remembered his warning to forget what she had seen that night, but she accepted Wetherby’s invitation anyway. The time had come to clear the air.

Wetherby did not seem eager to bring up the topic, however. Though he danced excellently, he was scarcely able to meet her eye. After a long stretch of uncomfortable silence, she was forced to allude to it herself.

“How is Sir Granville?” she asked innocently. He blanched, missed a step and nearly tripped over himself before he managed to recover.

“Perhaps we should discuss this outside on the terrace,” he suggested.

The night was damp and absolutely dark; even the stars were hidden by dense clouds. Thin rectangles of light spilled out from the windows, melding with the flickering torchlight as Eloise and Wetherby strolled out onto the empty terrace.

“I only wish to understand...” Eloise began hesitantly.

“Your curiosity is reasonable, I think,” Wetherby murmured. He glanced around the shadowy garden and seemed to satisfy himself that they were alone. “I only wish there were a simple explanation. The truth of the matter is—”

“You are in love with Sir Granville, are you not? Benedict told me. Yet how is it possible that a man should love another man?”

Wetherby looked thoughtful. “I cannot tell you how or why,” he replied, “only that I have always been so inclined. I cannot change what I am, though society calls it a crime. It is true that I am in love with Henry. The penalty, if we should be discovered, is death. Therefore I humbly ask for your discretion.” Wetherby’s voice trembled a little as he spoke.

“Of course, Lord Wetherby. You have my word. Only—”

“Yes?”

“Only I wonder, is it fair to deceive the young ladies of the ton as to your affections?”

Wetherby bit his lip. “Far from it, Miss Bridgerton, but I am an only son, and I am obliged to produce an heir. I had hoped to put off marriage as long as possible, but my father…” he trailed off, looking despondent.

“Then you are being forced to marry?” He gave a brief nod and looked away, passing a hand over his eyes. Eloise thought she understood something of how he felt.

⋯

Benedict was having a bad night. He did not care for crowds to begin with, and now he had misplaced his sister for the second time in as many balls. Eloise had been on the dance floor a moment ago, but now she was nowhere to be found. He was still searching when he rounded a corner and found himself face-to-face with Francis Hampton. The poet asked him whether there was anything the matter, and Benedict explained his predicament.

“Your sister? She is on the terrace with Lord Wetherby, I should think,” the poet informed him. “They went out together a moment ago.”

Benedict breathed a sigh of relief. He knew Wetherby, at least, could be trusted to do nothing untoward. But now Hampton was looking at him expectantly, apparently waiting for him to say something. “A pleasure to see you again,” he ventured.

“Oh, yes.”

“Splendid party.”

“Quite.”

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Benedict shuffled his feet. He felt that he was on thin ice here; he was unsure how to act around the poet. Their last encounter had been … not _improper_ exactly, but he had been too unguarded, thrown caution to the wind. He was drawn to Hampton in a way he could not fully explain, but he knew that he could not afford to give the wrong impression. Finally, he settled on art as a safe topic of conversation.

“How is your poetry coming along?” he asked hesitantly.

Hampton broke into a smile. “Well, I started something recently—a sort of classical Greek composition. When it’s finished I hope to submit it to one of the London literary journals.”

“I should like to hear it sometime,” Benedict said, “though I must confess, I am a philistine when it comes to poetry. I revel in all the charming words, but I am hopeless when it comes to the philosophical implications.”

“I feel quite the same way,” Hampton assured him. “I don’t care one jot for philosophy. My poetry is all emotion, and emotion has no basis in logic. I believe in a new sort of poetry, not constrained by the dusty conventions of the last century. Have you read Lord Byron?”

Benedict confessed that he hadn’t, which prompted Hampton to speak profusely of Byron’s genius. Apparently the two had met in London the year before. Benedict tried to follow along, but ended up getting completely lost somewhere between “the storms of life” and “the terror and the ecstasy of the sublime.” He had a vague notion that Hampton was talking about love again, which was dangerous territory. Still, he nodded along and agreed that there was something to this new school of poetry.

“I shall bring something round for you to read,” Hampton promised. “But enough about poetry. You are a painter, are you not? I understand that you are a _protégé_ of Sir Granville.” The poet raised his eyebrows in a way that made Benedict wonder how much he knew about Granville’s secret, but said nothing further.

“He has been kind enough to instruct me,” Benedict replied, “although I’m afraid I may prove to be a disappointment. I have been invited to exhibit a painting at the gallery this summer, and I should be honored—I _am_ honored—but I confess the prospect fills me with dread. My talents, such as they are, scarcely merit such consideration.” Benedict bit his lip. There he went again, saying too much, showing his hand. Why did Francis Hampton always have that effect on him?

“I am certain you judge yourself too harshly,” the poet replied.

“You flatter me, but I cannot even decide what to paint. A portrait, perhaps, but then I would need to find someone to sit for me.”

“Indeed? Well, if that is the only difficulty, then it is easily solved.”

“What do you mean?”

“You could paint me.” The poet met his eyes with a suggestive smile, and Benedict felt his heart skip a beat. “Provided that I am not too grotesque to look upon.”

“No! I mean, you are quite handsome.” What in the devil was he saying? “F-from an artistic perspective, that is.” Benedict’s face burned with embarrassment, while Hampton watched him with an amused expression. “I shall consider it,” he said finally. “Forgive me, I must go and find my sister.” He bowed and practically fled from the room, cursing himself for his imprudence.

⋯

Lord Wetherby had gone back inside, but Eloise could not bring herself to return to the crowded ballroom. She was pacing back and forth on the terrace, alone with her thoughts. Wetherby had risked everything for love. How could a person be so resolved, so certain of their own mind in the face of such insurmountable danger? It was unimaginable, and yet … the thought stirred something in her.

Perhaps it was the darkness of the terrace, or her distracted state, but Eloise did not see the figure emerging from the doorway until it was too late. She barreled into the stranger head-on, stumbling back from the impact.

“How clumsy of me—” she started to say, and then she realized who she had just collided with and felt all the color drain out of her face. It was Princess Fatima. 

The infanta was already drawing herself up in righteous anger, her eyes flashing dangerously. Eloise curtsied low. “Your highness, please accept my most humble apologies,” she mumbled, barely daring to meet the princess’ gaze.

“My fan,” Princess Fatima replied coldly.

“I beg your pardon, your highness?”

“My _fan_. You have caused me to drop it.”

Eloise looked down and observed that the fan, an elegant construction of peacock feathers, was indeed lying on the ground between them. It looked expensive. She hastily picked it up and extended it to the princess, who recoiled as though she were being offered a dead pigeon.

“Never mind that,” Princess Fatima said scornfully, “you may keep it for all I care.” She waved her hand in a dismissive motion. “Go! I wish to be alone.”

Eloise was not one to be patronized and ordered about. “With all due respect, your highness, I have as much right to be here—”

The infanta raised a hand, silencing her. “You dare contradict me? You have already assaulted my person and made free with my belongings, but I suppose that is not enough for the likes of you.” Her face was contorted with fury, her eyes burning gold in the torchlight.

Eloise had never met anyone so arrogant and bad-tempered in her life. Clearly the situation was going from bad to worse, but Eloise was too angry to care. “You don’t know the first thing about me!” she retorted.

“Indeed? And just who do you think you are?” the princess demanded.

Eloise defiantly met her glare. “I am Eloise Bridgerton, and I will not submit to be talked down to by a spoiled, stuck-up princess who cannot even pick up her own fan.” So saying, she threw the peacock fan down at the infanta’s feet.

Princess Fatima was almost incandescent with fury. “I shall have you thrown out at once for your insolence!” she vowed.

“There will be no need for that, your highness,” Eloise said, turning on her heel. “I was already leaving.”

⋯

The next morning, Eloise’s mother heard about the incident from her friend Lady Danbury, who had witnessed the whole scene from the balcony and found it dreadfully amusing. Lady Bridgerton, however, was appalled. “You must apologize to the princess at once!” she cried, sweeping her arm so emphatically that she nearly upset her teacup.

“I have no intention of doing anything of the sort. Besides, what possible occasion should I have to apologize to her?” Eloise replied. “I intend never to see her again.”

“She will be at Vauxhall next month,” Anthony pointed out from his seat in the corner.

“Then I shan’t go,” Eloise replied pointedly.

Her mother mopped her forehead with a handkerchief. “Eloise, we shall all be disgraced if you do not make amends. Princess Fatima is a special guest of the Queen, and her opinion carries greater weight than you know. You _are_ going to Vauxhall, and more to the point, you will call on the princess straight away and present your apologies. Though I fear it may already be too late, if Lady Whistledown has been apprised of the situation.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “I am sure Lady Whistledown has more important matters to write about than a waylaid fan. Really, Mother, you are overreacting.”

His comments were ignored, however, and that afternoon Eloise was packed into the carriage and sent to the royal guest palace to call on the princess.

_⋯_

Benedict was sitting in the drawing room working on a sketch when the butler announced that Lord Francis Hampton had come to call. Suddenly the poet was standing in the doorway, holding a bouquet of roses. Their eyes met across the room and Benedict felt color rise in his face.

Lady Bridgerton bustled around the table in great excitement. “Lord Hampton, how kind of you to come!” she exclaimed. “You are here to call on Eloise, no doubt.”

Hampton looked down at the bouquet in his hands. “Ah—yes, of course—is the young lady at home?” He intended to court Eloise, then. Benedict should not have been surprised. It would be a respectable match, all things considered. Hampton had wealth and status; Eloise had family connections, not to mention a sizable dowry. So why did the thought bother him so much?

“Eloise is out paying a social call,” Lady Bridgerton was saying, “but we expect her back very shortly, and she will no doubt be delighted to see you. Please, have a biscuit. Benedict, give him a biscuit!” She was very pink in the face, and Benedict wondered if she had been expecting any suitors to call after last night’s debacle. He dutifully selected a lemon biscuit from the plate and offered it to the poet, who accepted it with a smile.

“Your house is lovely, Lady Bridgerton,” Hampton remarked, sitting down next to Benedict on the sofa. He was very close, so close that Benedict’s breath caught with the sudden proximity, but Hampton seemed not to notice. He was admiring a painting hung next to the fireplace.

“Oh, that is one of Benedict’s,” Lady Bridgerton said, settling on the chair opposite. “He keeps a studio here. I keep telling him that he could have a fine career in commerce, but heaven forbid these boys listen to their mother!” She did not intend to be cruel, but Benedict felt a familiar shame rise in the pit of his stomach. He knew that his mother didn’t approve of his choice of career—it had taken him months to even work up the courage to tell her—but he wished that she would at least try to understand.

Hampton shot Benedict a sympathetic glance. “I should like to see the studio,” he put in.

Lady Bridgerton brightened at the idea. “What a charming notion!” she replied. “Benedict, why don’t you go and show our guest around?” She turned to Hampton. “I shall remain and work on my needlepoint, if you don’t mind. You gentlemen ought to get acquainted. Who knows, you may end up as brothers one day!” She winked outrageously.

“ _Mother!_ ” Benedict protested.

“Very well, go on then. I will send someone up to fetch you when Eloise returns,” Lady Bridgerton said with a smile.

Benedict led Hampton into his makeshift studio, where he had set up an easel by the window overlooking the back garden. The shelves were cluttered with art supplies, and the walls were plastered with charcoal sketches. There were several nude figure drawings scattered on the table, which he hastily shoved into a desk drawer out of sight. He felt suddenly self-conscious, all his insecurities laid bare.

He cleared his throat. “I apologize for the mess. If I had known you were going to call—”

“I find it most agreeable,” the poet assured him. “And these sketches are excellent—perfectly lifelike.”

Benedict mumbled his thanks. His art showed improvement, but he was frustrated at every turn, chasing some indefinite quality that he was unable to capture. Sometimes he secretly wanted to tear up all his sketches and throw them into the fireplace. Granville would admonish him for his self-doubt. _Stop erasing your lines—be bold. Draw from your heart._ The trouble was, Benedict hardly knew what his own heart wanted. But he did not say any of this to Hampton. 

Instead, he said, “I have thought about your offer.”

“Oh?”

“I … I should like to paint you.”

⋯

When Eloise arrived at the palace, the butler led her through a grand entrance hall and into a luxuriously furnished chamber where she was instructed to wait. She was on edge, certain that Princess Fatima would burst in at any moment and eviscerate her, but the infanta did not appear. Thirty minutes passed, then an hour, and still Eloise sat and waited. Finally, her restless curiosity got the better of her. There were no guards in sight, so she decided to risk a little exploration and take a look around.

She wandered from one hallway to another, through a labyrinth of vaulted ceilings and dusty suits of armor. The place was strangely deserted; no one stopped her or questioned her on her journey. Finally, she reached an open door and walked inside. She found herself in a spacious, light-filled room with a row of arched windows along the wall—and she was not alone.

Across the room, a figure stood silhouetted against the afternoon sunlight that flooded in through the windows. The stranger was poised in an expert fencing stance, lunging and striking into thin air with a deadly-looking saber. Eloise realized with a start that it was none other than Princess Fatima.

The princess was attired in a simple linen shirt and pantaloons. Her long black hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her face shone with the exertion of her efforts. Eloise had never seen a woman engaged in such a manner, and some part of her was curious to stay and watch, but she was certain the infanta would not welcome her presence. She tried to slip away without being noticed, but in vain—a floorboard creaked under her foot.

“Who is it now?” the princess demanded brusquely, turning and pointing her sword at Eloise in a manner that could only be described as profoundly threatening. Her face twisted with anger when she recognized her caller. “ _You._ How dare you disturb me in my quarters? I will not stand for uninvited guests.”

Eloise curtsied. “I apologize for intruding on you, your highness,” she replied. “I shall take my leave now.”

“Stop right there,” the infanta ordered, striding forward until she was within striking range. “Why have you come here?”

Eloise held up her hands, wary of being impaled. “Your highness, I merely came to convey my apologies for last night. I spoke out of turn.”

“Keep your apologies,” Princess Fatima said coldly. “I warn you, I do not take kindly to blackmail.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Do not presume me an idiot. I know what you are about. You intend to threaten me, to expose my private life to the scandal sheets of London. I know what they would think of a woman like me, but it is of no consequence. Who are they to judge me? I will not suffer extortion by the likes of you.”

“You are certainly full of yourself,” Eloise remarked. “You seem to think the whole world revolves around you. Trust that I have no intention of blackmail. I could not care less where you choose to occupy your time. In fact, I have no interest in you whatsoever.”

The princess lowered her sword by a fraction. “Is that so?”

“Cross my heart.” Eloise met Princess Fatima’s gaze, unflinching.

“I am delighted to hear it,” the princess replied venomously. “In that case I have only one thing to say to you, Eloise Bridgerton.” She closed in until they were standing only inches apart, their eyes almost on a level, and Eloise felt a thrill of trepidation pass through her. She noticed that the infanta’s eyes were intensely green in the sunlight, with flecks of gold burning in them like embers. For a long moment, the princess said nothing at all, just fixed her with a smoldering glare—but when she spoke, her voice was cold steel.

“Stay out of my way.”

⋯

Eloise had every intention of avoiding the infanta after that, but fate had other plans. Later that week, the Bridgertons went to see the opera at Covent Garden. Lady Bridgerton bustled off to exchange gossip with her friends, while Eloise and her older brothers waited in the entrance hall. Benedict was in good spirits—he had the spring in his step that usually meant he was onto a new project—but Anthony looked like he would rather be anywhere else. She tried to lighten the mood with a humorous remark about opera singers, but this only caused him to stomp off in a huff.

 _What was his problem?_ Eloise had no time to inquire, for at that moment Princess Fatima swept into the entrance hall, surrounded by her glittering entourage. She wore a long coat, for the night was damp, and she scanned the room from under the brim of a fur-trimmed hat. Their eyes met, and the infanta’s look darkened. Eloise quickly glanced away. “Let us find our seats,” she whispered to Benedict.

“Are you really on such bad terms with the princess?” her brother asked. “I thought you had apologized.”

“We are certainly not friends. In fact, I think she despises me,” Eloise admitted, “and I don’t particularly care for her either.”

“She will be in London for the rest of the season,” Benedict pointed out, “so you shall have to come to terms with her one way or another.”

“We’ll see about that,” Eloise replied, and they went up together to their box.

Evidently fate had a perverse sense of humor, because when they reached their box, Eloise discovered that they were sitting directly opposite from Princess Fatima. The infanta appeared to be engaged in an argument with her _chaperón_ and didn’t seem to have noticed. Eloise watched in fascination as the princess reached into the folds of her skirt and produced a silver hip flask. She knocked it back and smirked defiantly at her _chaperón_ , who looked scandalized.

Eloise was intrigued. What kind of princess carried a flask in her petticoats like a common bandit? Then again—what kind of princess knew her way around a sword? It was clear that there was more to the infanta than met the eye. Eloise remembered what she had said at their last meeting. _I know what they would think of a woman like me._ What other secrets was Princess Fatima concealing? What sort of life did she lead?

As though she could read Eloise’s mind, the princess looked up and caught her staring—but this time Eloise held her gaze.

The curtains rose, the orchestra swelled, and the stage was illuminated by the soft glow of gaslights. Darkness closed over the audience, but the look in Fatima’s eyes was still burned into Eloise’s memory. There was anger in that look, but there was something else too: a challenge.

Eloise sat up straight in her chair. _I’m not scared of you, princess. I will find out your secrets yet._

  
  



End file.
